


Scholarly Pursuits

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Poetry, Shameless Self-Indulgence, get-together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every dwarf warrior chose an art of peace to study, and Dwalin's was the written word. Many years later, he meets a little scribe that reminds him of his past. (Fluff, get-together, shameless self-indulgence, generous twisting of canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scholarly Pursuits

On one of the many balconies of Erebor, twelve young dwarves sat cross-legged on the flagstones, faces turned up attentively to the adult dwarf standing over them.

 

“Today you will choose your art of peace,” Vitr told the students, folding her arms over her chest. Dwalin elbowed Thorin and they both snickered, young enough to be far more impressed with battle than life.

 

Vitr loomed over them, frowning mightily. “You may think the art of peace to be a silly, soft thing, but it is what makes you a warrior instead of a fool. In order to protect our people and culture, you must better understand what that means. Your art of peace is a life-long companion for you to nurture. It will help you return your personhood to you when you feel it is lost. It will be your anchor when seas of blood threaten to overturn you. And it will connect you to the dwarves who chose not to live the life of war.”

 

Dwalin and Thorin quieted, chastised, and Vitr paced back to her spot at the front of the group. “You may choose any skill you wish, as long it is sufficiently distanced from war-making. Many choose jewelry-forging, mining, or music. Be thoughtful of your choice; I expect you to stick with it, and will allow changes only under great duress. You will apprentice to the master you are given for at least twenty hours a week, for the first two years, and continue your war studies in the rest of your time. Am I understood?”

 

The class of young dwarves bobbed their heads, and Vitr began pointing at one or another, asking their choice of arts and naming to them an appropriate master. Her finger fell upon Thorin, and he raised his head, proudly declaring “I choose the harp.” It was a usual choice for one of Durin’s line, for Durin I was renowned for his harp playing.

 

“Your master shall be Finn,” Vitr told Thorin, and turned to Dwalin.

 

Dwalin hunched shyly, and Thorin elbowed him until he sat straight again. “The written word,” Dwalin said, and struggled not to hit someone as titters ran through the class, face aflame with embarrassment. Vitr turned and impassively doled out open-handed blows to the loudest transgressors.

 

“Any who offers another offense over their art of peace will face me in the ring,” said Vitr, the edge of anger on her voice keener than a blade. She turned back to Dwalin, voice kinder. “It is a good choice, young dwarf. Not many may choose it but it is all the more precious for it. Your master shall be Iari.”

 

Soon after the class dismissed, dwarfs scattering to find their new masters. Vitr caught Dwalin before he could escape, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

 

“I shall walk with you to meet Iari, and we shall speak of your art,” Vitr said, and Dwalin fervently hoped to sink into the stones in his mortification.

 

They began the walk up to the library, and Vitr was silent for a long while before speaking again. “I know you find shame in your art, Dwalin, but I hope it would not be always so. Your comrades are as yet young, and do not understand the importance of writing, or its beauty. They see it as a cowardly thing, and yet it is among the bravest. I am pleased in your choice—I believe you will enjoy it even more than you think.”

 

Dwalin cleared his throat, awkwardly, and Vitr looked at him. “My grandfather often read to us—Balin and me—the saga of Nýi and Nidi, when we were children. I thought it beautiful.” Dwalin was blushing again, damn it all, but it was the truth.

 

Vitr’s eyebrows had risen at Dwalin’s words. “Nýi and Nidi? The warrior-lovers?” Dwalin nodded, miserable at the admission, but Vitr squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. “Do not be ashamed! ‘Tis a grand story, and I would be most proud should you grow into being a warrior with so kind a heart as Nidi.”

 

Thankfully, they had arrived at the library, and Dwalin was spared further embarrassment. Vitr guided him to the center atrium where desks were arrayed under bright lanterns.

 

“Iari, I bring you a warrior-student,” Vitr said formally, parking Dwalin in front of a desk. “He requests your time and teaching, to serve his people.”

 

The dwarf at the desk looked up, brushing a strand of inky-black hair back from his face. His hair was caught in one enormous braid down his back, beard almost indecently short and unadorned. He smiled, standing and nodding at Vitr.

 

“I greet you, student,” Iari said. “It would be my honor to guide you in your art of peace. The written word can be a difficult master, but it will also bring you great joy.” There was a thread of warning in Iari’s voice, and Dwalin bobbed his head, lost for words.

 

“The silent one is named Dwalin,” Vitr said, amused. “He is inspired to words by Nýi and Nidi. He is a good pupil, when he can find his tongue.” Pitiless, she sketched a bow to Iari before abandoning Dwalin.

 

Iari observed him, and Dwalin shifted uncomfortably. “Nýi and Nidi, hm? Well, there is no harm with starting with an old friend. Let us go and fetch a copy, and talk.”

 

\--

 

Many years later, Dwalin sat in a hobbit hole, observing the dwarven company that Thorin had gathered. One caught his eye—ginger-haired, barely an adult, wreathed in a mix of nerves and excitement. Familiar pen calluses adorned his hands, and Dwalin wondered how he had convinced anyone that he was fit for a journey such as theirs. It came as a surprise when the youth jumped up and defiantly declared his intent to fight the dragon.

 

As they travelled east, Dwalin quietly watched everything, including Ori. He was impressed, though he was loath to admit it. The scholar was quietly determined, not often speaking during the waking hours but attacking every task given to him with brow-furrowing single-mindedness. A precious few times, Bofur enticed him into telling a story around the campfire at night. Ori blossomed then, little voice growing large while confidently weaving out the great tales of dwarfdom from memory, fingers sketching broad images into the air. He flushed under the company’s praise for his recitation, shyly curling around his precious notebook with a pleased grin.

 

The nights after Ori’s storytelling, Dwalin sat up late into the night, staring at nothing. Memories of Iari crowded through his mind—laughing together, over one of Dwalin’s more ridiculous interpretations. The serious look he’d get on his face while reading. And the wide-eyed terror as he shouted at Dwalin to run, to get out of the mountain and save himself. Dwalin could still feel the gush of flame that swallowed his beloved mentor, and the feeling of tears evaporating right off his cheeks in the heat as a scream bubbled in his chest.

 

By the time the company reached Rivendell, even Dwalin had to admit that he was more than a little obsessed with Ori. Thorin had noticed, and had raised an eyebrow more than once toward Dwalin for it, but he got no answers for his troubles. Balin had merely smiled serenely the one time he caught Dwalin mooning, flicking a hand as if to say ‘do as you will’.

 

As they sat through the elven feast, Dwalin felt a plan forming in his mind. As soon as he could slip away, he did, wandering until the scent of paper reached his  nose and following it. Finally, he sidled into a room filled with books. He poked about, trying to find his objective without disturbing anything unduly, when a voice sounded behind him.

 

“Here I find one of the dwarf-kind, away from his comrades,” a tall female elf said, and Dwalin twitched and growled at the silent feet of elves. “Perhaps I could aid him, should he share his goal.”

 

Dwalin debated the likelihood of success without help and reluctantly bowed to the elf. “Dwalin, at your service,” he said, ruing every word. “I search for paper and ink and quill.”

 

“I am Iluviur, the librarian,” replied the elf, nodding gracefully. “That is a wish simply granted, master dwarf. Though I find myself surprised that not one but two among your company are scholars.” She passed behind a shelf, freeing Dwalin from responding, and returned with all three items in hand. “Freely asked, freely given,” she said, placing them on a low table. “And a desk appropriate for your size. Happy writings, master dwarf.” She swept away, apparently correctly divining Dwalin’s wish for privacy.

 

He sat at the desk many hours, scratching into existence lines he had not seen written in decades. Every letter sat heavy in his heart, but gained wings upon the paper, brushing away the years and pains until Dwalin felt remade.

 

Dawn was not even a lightness upon the horizon when he finished, the only hint of morning in the greyness of the night. Dawlin creeped back to the dwarf’s camp, paper rolled and gently clutched in his right hand. He nodded at Oín, who was on watch, and walked in among the sleeping dwarves. It was simple for him to find Ori—tucked between Dori and Nori, unsurprisingly—and he slipped the scroll in the scholar’s pack, laying it under the flap as to be unseen.

 

Within an hour the entire company was up, packing to slip out, and Dwalin was careful to keep Ori in the corner of his eye. The young dwarf went to pack his blankets, reaching into his bag, and a puzzled look crossed his face. He pulled out the paper, peering at the words, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Nori jogged his elbow, clearly asking a question, and Ori brushed it off, tucking the paper into his notebook.

 

Passing over the Misty Mountains was a trial in and of itself. Dwalin’s Ori-watching habits were limited to protecting as best he could while on the road, too exhausted or distracted to observe otherwise. Somehow, the company emerged on the other side of the mountains, and safely found their way to Beorn’s home. They gorged on the good, fresh food and fell into beds, all beyond exhausted.

 

Dwalin rose early the next morning, wire-tight nerves vibrating at some small sound. He sat up, scanning about, and spied the source of his awakening. Ori was hunched atop his blankets, turning through his notebook, the stiff pages letting out a soft susurrus. He pulled out a tattered paper, obviously much-loved, and Dwalin realized with a pang that it was his gift. Ori was reading it, a tiny smile upon his face, and Dwalin could no longer resist. He slid up behind Ori, as silently as he could manage, and began to speak.

 

“Nýi sat back,    eyes death-bright

beseeching his beloved,    ‘Worry not,

I go to the halls of    lords great and small,

but my heart remains    yet within your reach,

beating stilled but    love ever strong—

your life-blood safe,    your life-love pale.

Now I ask    one last kind gift,

soft lips,    upon my brow,

soft words,    upon my ears,

soft breaths,    upon my skin.’

Nidi bowed his head,    tears of diamond

brighter than stones,    unforgiving, and

pressed his lips    to shield-mate’s forehead

then mouth, sick-sweet of blood,    life’s last kiss.”

 

Ori was staring at Dwalin, eyes round and mouth agape. “You—the saga of Nýi and Nidi—I had no idea—“ stuttered Ori, clearly excited and confused, reaching out to pat at Dwalin’s leg. Dwalin sank to the floor obligingly, and Ori grabbed one of his hands with his own two.

 

Ori closed his eyes, stilling himself, before opening them and beginning to recite in the same drumming cadence.

 

“Nýi burned bright,    star-fire and moon-glow;

Nidi but a shadow    next to his sun,

but fire-drake’s shadow,    rage-strong with need—

and both together great,    loved and loving.”

 

Ori’s passage was from the introduction, outlining the story of Nýi and Nidi’s great love, and the words still pricked tears at Dwalin’s eyes. But Ori smiled brilliantly at him, clasping Dwalin’s hand tight. “I had wondered,” he breathed, swaying towards Dwalin almost helplessly. “Are you a scholar?”

 

“A bit of one,” Dwalin whispered, mesmerized by Ori’s eagerness. “I always was far too straightforward, but I loved it. Harder to find the works, or the time, since Erebor—“ and as always, that wave of emotion, as if it had happened only just yesterday, “but it was my art of peace, and I am the greater for it.”

 

“But why Nýi and Nidi?” Ori asked, and the gleam in his eye gave away his knowledge, though Dwalin answered him regardless.

 

“Young Nýi, bright and joyful, and old Nidi, battle-worn and scarred,” Dwalin said, paraphrasing another section of the introduction. “It always was my favorite of the sagas, even before you.”

 

Ori looked at him, a small smile upon his lips, head tilted as if he examined an unfamiliar manuscript. “Well, I should hope for a better ending,” he teased, and Dwalin helplessly reached out and pulled Ori into a rough embrace.

 

There would be time for questions, and arguments, and others later, but for now, Dwalin held Ori close, and swore that he would not see dragon’s fire touch another scholar while he lived.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I could. Because I wanted a reason for Dwalin and Ori to get together other than the fact that it's illogical. Because I do what I want.


End file.
